


Love in the Time of Covid

by the_real_cactus_betty



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Quarantine, Scrabble, domestic love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:48:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29408616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_real_cactus_betty/pseuds/the_real_cactus_betty
Summary: Logan is going stir-crazy in lockdown.Can they think of something to keep him occupied?
Relationships: Logan Echolls/Veronica Mars
Comments: 30
Kudos: 58
Collections: VMFF Galentine's Day Gift Exchange





	Love in the Time of Covid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TroubleScout](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TroubleScout/gifts).



> Part of the VMFF Galentine's Day Gift Exchange.  
> Happy Galentine's Day TroubleScout! I hope you enjoy some domestic quarantine LoVe.  
> Credit to Aurora2020 for her beta work.

A line had to be drawn. Veronica felt that the line settled somewhere around Logan and Keith’s Scrabble Zoom dates that had recently turned into hour-long battles of will. They argued over UK versus US spelling, with Keith’s regular attempts to sneak an extra U into play. Then they would slam down triple letter scores while casually exchanging tips on how to craft the best sourdough starter. With the one crusty loaf Logan prepared, he was briefly convinced a sleeping culinary genius had awoken within him. But the excitement was short-lived and now the starter lurked in Tupperware containers in the pantry, bubbling, toiling and troubling while Logan played GHERKIN on Keith’s MEMOIR. Pandemics, social distancing and extended shore leave were a dangerous combination.

At least Veronica has work. She spends daylight hours bunkered down in her file fortress, submitting to endless video conferences with firm partners in a curious ensemble of business up top (a pressed silk shirt) and casual slob out of screen (sweats bordering on a week’s worth of wear). In the afternoons Logan supplies her with coffee cups filled with mean margaritas with extra lime, while she blows on the rim to mask the contents and discusses depositions.

Logan had completed Netflix and played video games until his thumbs were blistered. He counted that there were 33 steps from one side of the apartment to the other, 27 from the lounge to the driveway, 22 from the bedroom to the balcony. The fridge will run for seventeen minutes before the condenser clicks in and then hums its tune and concluded that to preserve toilet paper for optimal longevity, ten squares is quite sufficient.

Even Pony was sinking into mania. Not used to his owner’s constant presence in the home, he would return from his walks and slink into the bedroom to enjoy some quiet time on the cool floors. While the additional pats were a bonus, his belly had rounded with the extra treats that his masters handed out to pass the time.

They’re in agreement that Logan needs a task. Even though he spends his mornings on his surfboard or in the home gym the rest of the day takes a downward spiral into boredom and the occasional marble obstacle course that encompasses the entire apartment in a complex loop.

It’s nine pm when they stroll into Home Depot. The store is virtually empty, fluorescent lights shine on the polished concrete floor. They stand by the paint swatches, a rainbow of two by two cards.

“Are we thinking white, beige, gray?” he asks.

“I’m thinking a light gray,” she says, surveying the colors.

Logan collects a handful of colors and starts shuffling them like playing cards in his hand. He flips them upside down. 

“Draw a card,” he says. 

“That seems like a risky way to pick a color,” she says, drawing a card anyway. 

“I like to live dangerously,” he waggles his eyebrows.

She closes her eyes and picks a card.

“ _Destiny_ ,” she says, reading the name, looking at the bright teal swatch. 

Logan recoils from the offensive color, “Excellent point, random selection is not advised.”

“What about _Chicago Fog_?” she says, holding up an option.

“We live in California, why would we want the walls to look like Chicago?”

Logan flips through the pile randomly again.

“How about _Mayonnaise_?”

“Veto,” says Veronica, thumbing through a pile lower to the ground, “Wait, that can’t be real?” 

He flips it over and shows her a color somewhere between cream and yellow.

“Let’s avoid condiments… especially on the walls,” she says.

They continue their scan. After twenty minutes of card flicking and replacement, Veronica carries a pile of ‘maybes’ in her hand.

“ _Periwinkle_ ,” Veronica offers, Logan eyes it and scrunches his nose. 

He holds up another, it’s somewhere between a light gray and a pale blue. It reminds him of the clouds in the late afternoon when they reach their tufts down as though they’re going to connect with the water.

“Wait, it’s called _Divine Pleasure_ , surely this is a winner?” he offers the swatch under her nose.

“Are we picking for the name or for the color?”

“I feel like you want me to say for the color?”

Veronica inspects it, takes the swatch from his fingers and walks to the desk.

“We’ll have a gallon of this one, please.”

“Should we do a test patch?” asks Logan, suddenly panicking.

“Now you’re worried about your _Divine Pleasure_?”

“I have full faith in it. Anyway, it’s 2020, what could possibly go wrong painting an entire room with an untested paint, randomly chosen at whim?”

Veronica laughs, the kind that talking about the hellish year brings, a nervous cackle bordering on madness. Logan grins, a reaction borne from the simple pleasure of still being able to entertain her, even after all these years.

The man behind the counter takes the swatch from Veronica. He’s wearing a cotton sewn mask, black covered in lobsters.

“Acrylic or Enamel?” he asks.

Veronica and Logan study each other for the answer and find none.

“What are you painting?”

“An office.”

He heaves out a large metal can from a low shelf saying, “you want acrylic,” and placing it onto a contraption splattered in multi-colored droplets. A series of keyboard presses and the robot machine begins blurting spurts of reds, blues and blacks into the can.

Logan studies Mr. Paint surreptitiously.

“Do you think he has a mustache?” he whispers in Veronica’s ear, voice muffled.

“Oh god, I can’t get you painting soon enough,” she says, then considers the man herself, “Yes to a mustache.”

“It’s all about the frontal mask volume. I’m thinking like Freddy Mercury,” says Logan.

“Really? No, it’s more impressive, like Tom Selleck, eighties Tom, Magnum PI days.”

Logan looks at the man, tilts his head, “Should I grow a mustache?”

Veronica doesn’t hesitate, answers a definitive, “No,” and Logan strokes his upper lip through the fabric.

While they wait Veronica tilts her head upon Logan’s shoulder, a makeshift resting place while they watch the paint mix and swirl. He places his atop hers, leans down and gives her a peck through his mask.

“Did anyone ever tell you, you look exceptionally cute in a mask?”

“No,” says Veronica, “because no one looks cute in one.”

“I beg to differ. Plagues really bring out your eyes,” he gazes down at her in a disposable blue surgical mask.

Veronica shakes her head and the man takes the can from one machine, places it into another, shuts a tiny roller door and it begins a fierce shaking. Logan watches the process in rapt attention. It makes a clanging racket, echoing down the aisles until the machine slows to a stop. Mr. Moustache pulls out the can, sets it before them on the counter, cracks the lid open with a flat screwdriver and waits as they assess the color.

“Divine Pleasure it is,” says Logan.

The attendant reseals the lid with a rubber mallet, tapes the top and hands them the can. Then he swiftly pulls down his mask, lips tight, to expose a luscious salt and pepper mustache, a gentle downward curve without full handlebars. 

“Impressive, man,” says Logan as he whips the mask back over the magnificence.

* * *

Logan can count on one finger the number of times he’s painted. A forced bonding session between himself and Weevil on school grounds was his last foray. The paintwork was rudimentary and required nothing but a roller and a few afternoons and arguments. The task before him now was somewhat more involved. A room that they labeled the ‘office’ and subsequently never used as one. Veronica’s preferred workspace was the glass dining table, Logan’s was his lap on the sofa. The room is a soft yellow with darker yellow trim, the remnants of a late nineties styling and the only room in their apartment that still had the original paintwork. 

Together they tape the windows, lay old sheets on the floor. She donates his oldest green t-shirt and oversize cargo pants to the sacrificial paint-clothing wardrobe. Logan dons them, walking the catwalk (also known as their hallway) and she takes a delicious time warp to junior year. The result of this involves the brisk removal of said clothing and an hour-long distraction right there on the floorboards until it’s back to business.

Paint business.

The brushes are lined up, roller at the ready. 

“I think you’re ready to go _painter_.” She puts painter in air quotes and Logan raises an eyebrow. 

“Air quote me all you want, I am about to paint the walls of our apartment, there’s no going back.”

“I trust you,” Veronica says, bestowing a single kiss on an unmasked cheek and leaves him to his devices.

“I’m glad one of us does.”

He tips the paint can, letting the gray smoothly cascade its ribbons, filling the tray. Into it he deposits the roller, sliding it back and forth in the liquid before applying it in thick, wet slicks across the wall, watching as the yellow slowly disappears into something more fitting for an urban apartment a block from the sea.

It takes him three days and three coats. He paints with the fastidious dedication reserved only for those in the Armed Forces. Not a drop falls on their mahogany floorboards, the trim line is never breached. He takes breaks only for refreshments and to sit on the balcony with Veronica for lunch. From the first coat, he can see the way the morning light streams through, making the walls white and luminous, as the sun travels across the sky it reveals a tinge of blue, and by late afternoon it’s a cool gray, contrasting perfectly with the humidity outside.

His hair is dappled with minute specks, his clothes faring much worse, a swipe of paint tracks from his temple to the tip of his right eyebrow where he’s wiped his brow.

Room transformed, Veronica admires his efforts as they sit on the pile of old sheets. 

“I know what you’re going to say. Quit the Navy, paint houses,” Logan smiles.

“I think I’ll let you fly another day,” she reaches across and dusts his hairline, but the dried paint doesn’t move.

“Probably a good idea. Three days to paint one room isn’t the most profitable endeavor.”

“Probably not.”

“Shall we move the Harper & Blackburn Law Offices into this inviting space?” he says, arms outstretched.

Veronica shrugs, “Or, I could stay out on the dining table?”

“Or you could,” he says, taking a breath, glad that she’s content in his company, “So, what should we do with this room?”

Veronica uncrosses her legs, stands, and paces around, hovering her hand above the last coat of wet paint but careful not to touch it.

“I could argue that Divine Pleasure is a good color for a kid’s room,” she says, looking at the wall, not him.

Logan looks up, head tilted, a look of bewilderment crinkles his paint makeup. He studies her face in profile as she paces, the set of her mouth is serious, but the beginnings of a smile play at the corners.

“Is that so? I don’t think I saw that advertised on the swatch description.”

“It’s neutral,” Veronica says.

“That it is.”

“It is a room, without a task.”

“Well, I think we should give it one,” Logan smiles, tapping his fingers on his knees.

She nods, strolls back over to him, straddling his outstretched legs and nestles into his lap, his arms wrap her waist, pulling her close.

"Did we just noncommittally agree to trying for a baby?" Logan asks, nudging her arm.

"Maybe."

He chuckles.

Veronica points to the room, "Look at this randomly selected color that you chose purely for its ridiculous name. It worked, didn't it? It looks incredible. Maybe we can make 2020 into something positive? That it might give us some…"

"Hope?" He finishes her sentence. 

She smiles, eyes blue and sparkling. 

"Is this _really_ what you want?" He asks, knowing that direct questions are required for Veronica and even then she may still avoid them.

"Yes," she answers, "Is it what you want?"

"Yes," Logan says, smiling wide.

In the middle of a pandemic, in a freshly painted room, Logan kisses Veronica. Once, then twice. He kisses away the rolling news coverage they’re too worried to watch, the daily numbers that keep them awake at night. His kisses strike away the feeling of uncertainty that’s brought by having to distance from those they love. They’re lucky and they know it, he has the privilege of suffering only from boredom. They have their health, a home, money. Each other.

The next day the walls are dry, the sheets still sit on a pile on the floor, Logan has cleaned the paint from under his fingernails. Veronica is buried back in mount paperwork, occasionally smiling as she watches the men and their screens.

The Neptune Scrabble championship has resumed, Keith affronted that play was delayed for days in favor of home decorating.

Keith plays BABY and Logan smiles.

Logan plays LUXURY on a triple word score.

“Forty-eight points,” he says, smugly.

Keith rubs his hand across his balding head, the top of it shining on the screen while he stares at his tiles and groans.

Keith plays FAVOUR, no bonuses.

Logan lets the U fly.


End file.
